


Órënya

by DreamingOfSummer



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: (kind of), Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, M/M, Quest of Erebor, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:35:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22607119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingOfSummer/pseuds/DreamingOfSummer
Summary: Nine times they’ve walked the earth: lived through and died in wars and in tragedies. Loved and were loved; laughed and danced, and grieved lost friends. But the Darkness is stirring in this tenth life and the Great Smaug is only the beginning.Or alternatively: Bilbo had a quiet and orderly life in the Shire, thank you very much. He had his garden and his tomatoes and certainly had no desire to go on an adventure (Gandalf!).  Then enters Thorin Oakenshield and he cannot (should not) leave the love of his life (lives) to go on this suicide quest alone.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Órënya – my heart (inner mind) 
> 
> This is an idea I had after reading way too much Hobbit fanfiction this past few days. The rest of the story will be following Bilbo and Thorin on their way to Erebor with the different dynamic between them.  
> Since I'm posting this in 3A.M, I would be thankful for any mistakes pointed out.

**Prologue**

_Listen children, I will tell you a story. A story about love and loss, and treasures beyond measure. The story of Frinar’s lost love._

_Frinar? Who is he?_

_Don’t interrupt! Just listen, all will become clear in due course._

_Sorry_.

***

Long ago, when the world was new, Aluë, whom the dwarves call Mahal, craved the Seven Fathers of the Dwarves from the stone, deep beneath the mountains of the world. He gave them life and thought them crafts and lore. But in his haste to do so, he angered Eru Ilúvatar, for He had wanted His children to be the first to wake and walk Arda. In His mercy, he let the Seven Fathers live, but they should not wake before the Elves and so they slept beneath the mountains waiting for the Firstborn to awaken. And so they slept, six pairs and the one.

Aluë loved His children and did not wish for them to enter the world alone. So He crafted others, the Second Dwarves, who would wake only after the Fathers. Among those was Frinar. It is said that he was favored by his maker, but that is for you to decide at the end.

Frinar woke alone, in stone, deep beneath the Misty Mountains. He knew, as all of the Dwarves then did, how to carve the stone around him, how to listen to the pulse of the deep earth and how to use her gifts – metals and stones, some precious and some not. Frinar left his birthplace and traveled alone to the South, until he reached a settlement which is now known as Moria – the Great Halls of Durin I, whom the dwarves call Deathless, for it is said that he will return seven times to Arda and his final departure would mark the end of the Dwarves.

Frinar spend many a year there, in a small forge perfecting his craft. He was content with his quiet life but at night he would remember the blue sky and the wind and the grass. Until one day Moria woke and Frinar was gone.

He travelled lightly - no clothes but those on his back; no treasures but a few simple beads and clasps in his hair; no food but that which he could forage and catch; and no weapons but a plane dagger. Frinar walked alone for a time. It was not a short amount of time, but he did not know how much; it could’ve been moons or years, but still he walked. He listened to the songs of the birds; he felt the sun beams and the rain on his face; he braved the winds and the storms and still he walked and walked.

And then he reached a forest. A huge sprawling expanse of trees he had never seen before. Frinar unknowingly had entered a domain of the goddess Yavana, whom the Elves call Kementári; who had not wanted for him and his kin to exist, afraid for Her woods. And so She watched him make his way deeper and deeper in the forest, waiting until he did something, anything to anger Her. But Frinar did not.

He walked and walked, until it was so dark and he could not tell day from night. The trees were so large and so close that not a single ray of light could slip through the branches. The grass that used to grow beneath his feet was gone, for no plant can live without sunlight. The feeling of the wind and the rain on skin had become a distant memory. Slowly but surely, whatever food he had had was dwindling to nothing. There were few animals living among the higher branches, but with his dagger he could not catch them; moss and mushrooms was all he had to eat, but the water was nearly gone. Still he walked deeper, hoping to reach the end and see the light once more. Many times Frinar thought to turn around, but he kept walking forward.

One day, for it was a day even if he did know it, he found a rock and decided to sit, for he was tired, thirsty and hungry. At that moment, Frinar missed Moria and his quiet forge and simple life. Many a thing he had seen in his journey and know that the end was near, he wished he had stayed so he’d be buried beneath the stone; returned to the place of his birth.

“Why are you sitting on that cold hard rock?” the voice sounded like the small delicate silver bells he had made many a year ago.

“It is not hard to me,” he answered and turned. A strange creature stood there, shorter than him, or so he thought, with pointy years and curled dark hair. “Who are you?”

“How can it not be? It is a rock,” Frinar could not see well in the darkness, but he felt the smile in the creature’s voice.

“Who are you, I asked? Either answer or leave me be!”

“How rude. I was sent by Yavana to guide you out of the Great Woods until you find your path, but see if I will. No, I think I shall leave you here, for you are rude and certainly not a good company for travel. Enjoy your not-hard rock,” and with that it spun around on its heels and left.

“No, wait!” he cried out and scrambled after the smaller being. He could barely hear its footsteps and only a couple of feet away even the vague silhouette he had observed had faded into the darkness. “I apologize, please, show me the way!” laughter not unlike the sound of the wind chimes, echoed through the forest.

“Since you asked,” it waited for him. “You’re quite lost. However did you get so deep in the Great Woods? You must have walked for a moon at least!”

“I do not know for how long, I just walked,” he shrugged and fought an urge to look away from the figure. Only the fear that it will disappear prevented him. It was still dark and the creature moved almost silently.

“Why?”

“I do not know, I just did.”

“But why? Why would you walk for so long?”

Frinar took a deep breath. “I do not know. I wanted to and so I did.”

“Do you not have a home? Duties?” for a Dwarf who had walked alone for so long, the incessant chatter was confusing.

“Why do you ask so many questions?”

“So you do not have a home?”

“I do. I wanted to see more and I left. Do you only answer on the second time?”

“Maybe,” there was definitely a smile in its voice, he was sure of it. “Where are you from?”

“A mountain to the west. I had never seen such a forest before. All others were smaller easier to go through.”

“Mountain? That is similar to a large rock, is it not?” the being didn’t know what a mountain was! Frinar had to stifle a laugh at that. “And of course you haven’t,” it continued, unaware of his thoughts, “we are in the Great Woods. There is no forest like this. Tell me about your mountain.”

And so they talked and walked. Frinar learnt many things that day – about the trees and the flowers and the world east of the Great Woods. In return he thought his strange little savior about the mountains and the rocks and the life beneath the earth.

Slowly, the trees were thinning and it was getting easier to see, the birdsong was louder and the soft breeze played with the creature’s strangely curled copper hair, much lighter than he had thought previously. Eventually they stooped at another entrance of the Great Woods.

“We shall part ways here,” she, for here in the sunlight Frinar could tell it was a she, albeit a she different from the ones in Moria - less stocky, lacking a beard and with larger bare feet. “I have helped you find your path. Farewell…”

“Frinar,” the answer came late, as he was caught in her eyes, the color of faceted sphalerite, so different from his iolite.

“It was nice meeting you, Frinar,” once more she turned to walk away.

“Wait! I don’t even know your name or if that is my path.”

“What do you want, Frinar?”

“You said you’ll guide me to my path.”

She turned and reached out with a smile. “Then, we shall travel together then.”

Friner took her outstretched hand and felt is heart skip a beat as she whispered her name. And so they walked together for a time-

***

_But what was her name? What was she?_

_I don’t know. No one knows. Some say she might have been a Hobbit, but can you imagine? I think it was a fairy._

_No one knows?_

_No one. Now, let me carry on. No interruptions!_

***

And so they walked together and Frinar was no longer alone. They crossed many forests and meadows and passed through many villages. In those they stayed, she would bring out an herb or two and help the ailing and he would visit the forges and make weapons and jewels beyond what the Men had.

Frinar was happy, but he was not content. There was something in his chest, a warmth that would spread inside him every time she would smile; his heart would skip a beat or two. The world had changed: the sun shone more brightly, the stars glittered in the night sky and the birds sang entire concerts.

“What is wrong with me?” he asked one night.

“Nothing. You are well and when you figure your feelings out, tell me.”

“Why, if you already know?”

“Because I want to hear it from you.”

And life went on.

***

_But you said that there is loss and treasures._

_I did._

_This is a girly love story!_

_Not for long. Be patient!_

***

All things come to an end, good and bad and the end was near. For Frinar and his companion were good and virtuous, but not all in the world were. Frinar had fought bravely and had felled those who had come to harm them, but he had been too late. A stray arrow had pierced her heart. He found her cold with open unseeing eyes.

There, next to the body of his beloved, Friner fell down on his knees and wept. For days he wept until the tears had dried out, until his knees had numbed. Then he stood and with the body in his arms returned to the Great Woods, to the place he had taken her hand. He laid her down, knelt once more and prayed. For seven nights and days he prayed to Aluë and for seven more he prayed to his wife Yavana. For many moons he stood there, a silent guard over her body, praying to the Valar.

“Why do you pray for so long, my Son?” asked Aluë one day.

“Because she is gone and I loved her, O great Father,” answered Frinar.

“All things come to an end, Child,” said Yavana.

“But I loved her and I didn’t know it. Now that I do, she is gone.”

“What do you want?”

“To tell her.”

That night Frinar dreamt that he was in a great hall, grander than any other, bathed in light of every color with the most beautiful music playing. What else he dreamt and with whom he spoke is unknown, but what we know is that he woke and set out to create three items – a weapon stronger than any other and lighter than feather, a small Arda and a jewel with a star inside. And so he set out in the world to do the impossible and see his beloved again.

First he went back to Moria and dug deep in the mounting, searching for a metal stronger than any other and lighter than a feather. What he found is unknown, but for years he dug and he dug and from the ores he discovered he made many weapons – daggers, swords and axes – each more intricate and beautiful than the other, stronger than a diamond and cutting through the hardest rock, but heavy. Frinar persevered.

One day, the very stone in front of him moved and he saw a pale glistening metal, unlike any other. Frinar took just enough to make a small dagger, not unlike the one he always wore, for when you are gifted with something you should never be greedy and take too much. After he had finished he set the dagger on the measuring scales, it was lighter than the feather. He named the metal mithril and presented the dagger to the Valar. Aluë said it was good.

Then he set out to recreate the earth. He walked for a very long time and wherever he went he gathered seeds. The plants themselves would give their seeds to him for they knew him well. And so, Frinar walked for many years until he was sure there were no more plants and went to a meadow close to the mountain. Then he gathered stones of every king and built a fence around the meadow. Then he dug and build a lake, with water coming from a stream in the mountain. Then he planted every seed and watched over them as they grew. The doors were open and many animals came to the small oasis to live among the trees and shrubs and flowers.

For what is Arda but a garden? Many years passed until Yavana came and said that it was good.

By the time Frinar set out for the third task his beard was more grey than black, his face and hands showing signs of age. He walked once more. Years passed, but he was no closer to the answer. Where could he find a star?

One day, when he was white with age, he sat at the shores of a lake so large that it seemed never-ending and watched the sunset. He sat, tired and so very old, watching as the stars appeared one by one, glittering from above. On that moonless night Frinar looked down, to smooth surface of the lake and saw the same light reflected there.

“What you need is of inside me,” said a small rock polished from time and water. “What you need is inside of me,” it repeated.

Friner took out his small carving knife in one hand, the rook in the other and with strength he didn’t know he had managed to break it in half. Therein was a colorless crystal of some sort. How he did it, we cannot say, but with a little common crystal and the reflected light, Friner crafted a jewel unlike any had seen before. There are no words that can do it justice.

He named the stone Starlight and took it to Moria. There he made a crown of mithril and gold and silver and placed the Starlight at the center. Many came to see the Crown of Stars, to bargain for it, but Friner kept it at his mantle, working on it day and night even after many declared it the finest in the world. The Valar, however, were silent.

One day, Friner put the crown aside, for there was nothing more he could do. Thinking of his beloved, he took a scrap of copper and made a simple chain which twisted around itself not unlike the way her hair used to curl. On it he hung two silver bells which ringed as if with her laughter. At the middle he put a single faceted sphalerite.

“She was my starlight,” said Friner. “She led me from the darkness and showed me the light. She was more beautiful than the stars and shone more brightly then them.” Delicate and simple the neckless was, Eru said that it was good.

The story goes that they would meet in the next life and live together, never to be separated again.

***

_That’s it?_

_Yes. That is it._

_But they didn’t have a live together. Frinar never told her he loved her. He spent his life trying to bring her back and in the end he failed._

_No he didn’t. He succeeded._

_But she’s still dead._

_Yes, but it’s the next life that’s important. When something is gone, it can’t be returned that easily._

_I understand._

_Do you?_

_No, not really. And you said we’d know if Frinar was favored by the Valar._

_I did._

_And?_

_What do you think?_


	2. Another Time for the Tenth Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all the gossip and whispers, Bilbo grew up happy and content. While he was not quick to laugh and indeed, often found the conversations and games of his peers a little too simple for him, he tried not to let it bother him too much. He had his books and his dreams, and his secret adventures and one day he’d find someone to talk to who understood him.

Within the remains of the once-great kingdom of Arnor, in the northern part of Eriador lies the Shire. The Shire is a peaceful place and if one must describe it with a word it’d be green. From the moment one enters the homeland of the Hobbits (strange and shy creatures with pointy ears, big and bare feet and statue of a human’s child), they are surrounded by greenery and corps of every kind, rolling hills and very little buildings. You see, the Hobbits live in a nice comfortable holes in the ground, inside those very hills, close to the earth and the sky.

In one such Hobbit-hole ( _a smial, as any self-respecting Hobbit would correct_ ) Bilbo Baggins opened his eyes for the first time for the tenth time. As the only child of Belladonna and Bungo Baggins Bilbo grew loved and in comfort. Many of the residents in Hobbiton attributed his oddities to that. An only child, in that big smial to those rich parents, what a tragedy! What a scandal!

And odd Bilbo was, at least as a child – a little too quiet, a little too serious, and a little too distant. His parents saw nothing wrong with that. Indeed, in those days Bungo was often heard praising his son for staying inside and diligently attending to his studies, even in the warmest of days! _Can anyone else claim that?_ _He also keeps his room tidy and always pick up after himself,_ he would add bursting with fatherly pride. Here Belladonna would interject that i _t’s not always, only most of the times, which is still more than most fauntlings his age_. And he would help out in the kitchen too! So smart was their little son that he didn’t need help at the stove.

Their neighbors would smile and nod and agree that young Bilbo is certainly an extraordinarily well-behaved and clever child. However, as soon as the proud parent would turn their backs, the neighbors would gather and point out that it is not natural for a young child to be so good. Bilbo has never even stolen a single pie! He needn’t be wild like a Took but a little prank here and there, why it is only natural for his age. _And have you noticed_ , they’d carry on, whispering behinds hands, _he doesn’t play too much with the others his age_. Young Bilbo was even heard saying that the games are too simple for him and may he please read a book. _That is what happens when a child grows up alone, with no siblings. Truly, it is a pity for the smial._

For all the gossip and whispers, Bilbo grew up happy and content. While he was not quick to laugh and indeed, often found the conversations and games of his peers a little too simple for him, he tried not to let it bother him too much. He had his books and his dreams, and his secret adventures and one day he’d find someone to talk to who’ understand him.

_There is nothing bad with preferring one’s own company,_ his father would point out, why Bungo himself was happiest with a good book in front of the fireplace and Belladonna often went out on walking holidays for a day or too. And Bilbo listened and spend many an hour reading books and exploring the lands around Hobbiton.

Those summer days of childhood would soon end in winter so cold that the Brandywine River would freeze.

_***_

_The world is dark and he can’t see. No, he is blindfolded and is being led somewhere. Yes, that is it. But where and by whom?_

_“Where are we going?” he asks. He isn’t scared, merely bemused. The hand wrapped around his shoulders is heavy and warm. He is happy._

_“You’ll see,” the other voice sounds like music. “It’s not long.”_

_“But I want to know now,” the whine is unmistakable, as is the soft chuckle that follows it._

_“It won’t be a surprise then and you said you wanted a surprise.”_

_“Well, I don’t do now. Lereredh!”_

_“Patience, galad-nin, we’re almost there.”_

_***_

There are tears on his face when he woke up. As Bilbo grew older, more and more often he would wake up with heavy heart and tear-stained face.

“What is it my love?” Belladonna would ask in the early days. “Did you have a bad dream?”

“It just hurts, right _here_ ,” a small Bilbo would say and point to his chest or grip his nightshirt with small chubby fists. “Like someone is gone, but no one is gone. Why does it hurt Momma?”

“Oh, my little love,” she would sigh and hug him close as he cried. Many mornings were spend in similar fashion. Perhaps more would have, had Bilbo not overheard a conversation between his parents.

“I don’t know what is wrong with him,” his mother’s voice quivered. “He is so young, what is he dreaming of every night?”

“I don’t know,” Bungo sounded old, like the Old Took. In his mind eye Bilbo could almost see his mother curled next to the hunched figure of his father. “There ought to be something we can do. If the neighbors catch a whiff of this. It would haunt him for years.”

“You, Bungo Baggins, are too preoccupied with silly notions!” Belladonna exclaimed in a loud angry voice. “What would the neighbors think? Our child is suffering! That is far more important, you.. you… Baggins!”

“Can you imagine what they’d say? My dear, just think about it. He would never have a quiet life here.”

It is at that point that Bilbo ran to his room. He hadn’t wanted to worry his parents. He didn’t want to be the weird fauntling that got teased by the others.

That night he dreamt of beautiful forest, of a wind far colder than any in the Shire and of a gentle smile and blue eyes. The flash of metal, the sound of a stretched bow, the smell of blood.

He awoke, earlier than usual, clutching at his stomach, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. Bilbo was in front of his parents’ room when he remembered. He shouldn’t worry them, he is a big boy and shouldn’t worry his Momma and Poppa. He turned and silently walked back to his room.

Bilbo stopped crying in front of his parents and soon they stopped asking if he’d had a bad dream.

***

_“What will we do if there are orcs?”_

_“We’ll kill them of course.”_

_“Or they’ll kill_ us.”

“ _How your mind always leaps to the worst, I shall never know.”_

_“Because_ you _only think of the best!”_

_“The best would be that we shall not encounter any orcs or goblins, or wolves, or any other dark creature, my heart. So you see, I am merely pointing out the likeliest outcome.”_

_***_

The winter of Bilbo’s one-and-twentieth year was different. It came earlier than it should have and colder besides. By the end of Winterfilth the ground was already frozen in the mornings. But for all that it was unusually cold, most carried on as usual.

“We should gather more wood,” Bilbo said one morning. The fires were lit and had already expelled the morning chill, but Bungo and Belladonna had to fight a shiver at their son’s words. He had sounded… strange. There was a certain feeling of gravity behind his voice that should not have been there.

“Why do you think so? We have enough to last us for the winter,” Bungo was sure of it. He had taken care to buy the kindling earlier than their neighbors and to stockpile only the best as was his custom.

“Because we are burning more than we should for Winterfilth. And I think this winter will be longer. Better to have more and not use it than have less and need it,” on the other side of the table Bungo and Belladonna shared a look.

“Why do you think it’ll be long?” Bilbo glanced at his mother. There was worry in her eyes, but he knew it was for him. Mrs Chubb had called him rather odd not too long ago, in a conversation he had not been expected to overhear. Her voice echoed in his head, unbidden.

“I don’t know,” he answered, because it reminds me of a winter I saw in a dream last night was not the best explanation. “The ground is frozen in the morning and there is frost on my window. The fireplaces burn throughout the day and we still wear heavy clothes inside. I just think it’d be prudent to have more woods… and food. One can never have enough food.”

In the end his parents agreed to ease his fears. Two months later, when the deep snow and terrible winds prevented all Yule preparations they were grateful. The small family had enough provisions to last them until Thrimidge. Or they would have, if not for Belladonna and Bungo’s kind souls.

The first snow fell in the middle of Blotmath. That on itself was not terribly out of the ordinary; what was, was that the snow kept on piling up and not melting. For a week a terrible snowstorm raged outside and when it finally abided all the smiles were buried beneath mountains of snow.

“The chimneys! We have to keep the chimneys clear!” Bilbo’s voice had echoed in the smial during that time and the three Bagginses had made sure that every chimney was clear of snow and had warded of the corridors with the guest rooms.

“No point in warming that part up, is there?” Bungo had asked with a strained smile.

Once the weather cleared, the family spent a day clearing up the path to the red round door and set out to visit the tenants.

“We may be fine, my boy, but many of our neighbors are not as well-to-do as us,” Bungo explained to a curious Bilbo. “Our tenant especially. It is our job, as landlords, to take care of them in such trying times and help however we can.”

“You’ll give them cold to buy provisions?” Bilbo wondered from where they would find enough for every family. He had seen his father’s list with names, it was long.

“Probably will give them blankets and wool, Yavana knows we have more than enough. Food and wood, if they need them,” the older Hobbit chuckled. 

“But then we won’t have food and wood!” Bilbo protested worriedly. He had spent so much time convincing his patents to gather up more provisions and now his Poppa was talking about giving them away to people who “Hadn’t have the good sense to have their own. Why should we-“

“That is enough!” all who knew Bungo would agree that he was a gentlehobbit of impeccable breeding and rarely raised his voice. “I shan’t hear more of this, Bilbo Baggins! You should be ashamed of yourself. Those are people under our protection and even if they weren’t, it is not right for them to go without when we have more than we need. We must have raise you very poorly if you would believe otherwise.”

Properly chastised, Bilbo spent the rest of the walk in silence.

Once they neared the first smials and got inside he understood a little better. Many of the families lived in smaller homes with only one (one!) pantry and had many children. He saw many shaken Hobbits, all of them only too happy to invite them in and thank his father for coming to check up on them.

“We are alright, Master Baggins, as you see. The children were a little shaken up, but the worst is over now. At least spring will come earlier this year, don’t you agree? We shall have to go out and gather wood now, such a bother. But with that cold week we’ve had…”

“They aren’t prepared as us, are they?” Bilbo asked on the way home after their last visit.

“No, my boy, I am afraid not.”

In following days Bilbo discovered that it wasn’t just the tenants, but their fellow gentlehobbits as well. Even if Bungo gave money to the poorer Hobbits, they had no place to buy more food or kindling.

As time went by and Yule drew nearer, most of the inhabitants in Hobbiton knew that their small family had plenty of everything and when the weather permitted they came to ask for help.

“If you could spare just a little of…” whatever the person was needing at the moment. Bungo and Belladonna were too gentle and never refused and Bilbo watched their stores dwindle down faster than they should have with dread.

***

_The wind was so cold it felt like miniature needles on his face. At least the small portion that was not covered by anything._

_“It’s too cold!” he complained._

_“What?”_

_“I said, it’s too cold!” he shouted over the wind. “How does our esteemed leader expect us to fight in this shitty weather?”_

_“Fight what? Do you see a living soul here?”_

_“We’re here!”_

_“Because we have orders, nothing is here.”_

_He was cold and suddenly, he was very very warm, too warm. Then he knew nothing more._

***

Another storm hit a few days before Yule. The winds were so strong that Bilbo, for all that he was almost an adult, went to hide in his parents’ bedroom at night.

“This isn’t ending,” Bungo complained in the morning of the first day of Yule. “And now we cannot have a party!”

“But we are together, are we not,” Belladonna smiled and leaned to kiss her husband. (Ew, Momma!) “No one said we cannot have a small celebration just between us. I will bake a special cake and have knitted you some very warm scarfs and gloves. We shall sing and dance and it’ll be such fun without the Sackville-Bagginses this year.”

“One good thing this dastardly weather has done,” the corners of Bungo’s mouth were twitching upwards. Staying moody in the face of Belladonna’s cheer was a lost battle if there ever was one.

Years later Bilbo would remember that Yule night as one of the best he’d ever had.

On the morning after the storm broke and with it came news. The Brandywine river had frozen and Hobbits from Buckland were abandoning their homes and running towards Hobbiton. Wolves had crossed the river from the Old Forest. Wolves and other beasts, hungry and ferocious, who had come to the Shire in search of food.

Families were already moving to live together in the bigger smials, sharing food and heat. More mouths were arriving soon. Bilbo and his parents, much to his chagrin, cleared out several rooms and welcomed a family of eight.

***

Solmath approached with no signs of winter ending. The wolves were roaming the streets freely and Bilbo spent more time trying not to snap at their guests than anything else. When he got so angry he would go to the stores and sort through their provisions and count how much longer they’ll last. At least people had stopped coming to ask for things.

“I want Elevesies,” a snotty voice demanded from behind him. Bilbo girthed his teeth, clenched his hand in fists and counted to ten and then to twenty before turning. The voice belonged to the second youngest child of the interlopers, little Daisy was clutching a ragged doll in one hand and had a finger in her mouth. “I’m hungry, I want food.”

“You’ll eat at lunch,” they were rationing whatever food they had left, but Bilbo knew that it’ll not last them more than another moon. The adults had agreed that three meals a day would have to suffice. He had been proposing one and a snack.

“But I’m hungry now,” the girl wailed and he was struck with the sudden desire to hit the child.

“We all are. No one else is eating are they? You’ll wait for lunch,” and get out if my hair he didn’t add.

“But Hamson is. I saw him and he said he took the apple from the pantry and you have the key. I want an apple too.”

“Hamson said what?” Bilbo tried to ask gently but with the way Daisy took a step back he hadn’t been successful. Hamson, was the middle child and a right terror in his opinion, and if he was stealing their carefully rationed food.

“He… he…” the girl started crying here, unable to finish her sentence. It was no matter, Bilbo would deal with this.

“HAMSON!” he bellowed. “Where are you, you little thief?” the Hobbit stalked the house, fuming with anger. Finding the offender prove easy, his siblings more than willing to give him and avoid Bilbo’s temper. Rather pathetic in his opinion.

“How did you get in the pantry?” he tried asking before the boy tried running.

“I dunno what you’re talking about,” claimed the darkhaired child petulantly.

“Oh really, why do I see honey on your face, hm? And what is that in your pocket?”

“Nothin’. I got nothin’ and you canne prove that I do!” and here he tried to run, but Bilbo’s arm shot out like a whip and caught him by the scurf of his shirt.

“I’d answer quickly,” the smile he shot at the boy was enough to make him tremble.

“I swiped the key from Mrs Belladonna,” he answered, “but I took just the apple, and a little honey. I was hungry.”

“We all are hungry!” Bilbo tried not to shout at the child. Hamson did shrunk back so perhaps he had not managed that. No matter. “If you take and take soon there’ll be no more food left. We should never have taken you in!”

“Bilbo Baggins! Unhand Hamson this instant!” Belladonna stood behind him with crossed hands and red face.

“But-“

“Now!”

In his haste to get away, Hamson nearly fell to the ground, only Belladonna’s quick reflexes saved him from a broken nose.

“He stole food from the pantry,” Bilbo thought that was the more important transgression not his method of punishing the brat.

“He is a child and a hungry one at that.”

“But-“

“You are older than him and are expected to behave better. How dare you, manhandling a child like that. And saying we should have left them outside. To the cold and the wolves,” Belladonna was getting more and more red with every sentence.

“We wouldn’t have so little food that way.”

“It is our duty to help those in need!”

“It is not our duty to starve with them!”

“We are hardly starving.”

“We might as well be. With the way you and Camellia cook, soon our store will be empty. And then what?”

“We shall cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“We are already there, Mother!” with that he stalked past her and went to his room. The one place no one dared enter. It was colder than the rest of the smial, the fire burning only in the evening, but it was quiet and empty.

A knock shook him from his musings and before he had answered the door opened and Bungo entered the room.

“You shouldn’t talk to your mother like that,” he scolded gently, “or harm a child because you’re in a bad mood.”

“He deserved it,” Bilbo muttered to the window. “And I am right.”

“Be that as it may, you should apologize, to the both of them,” Bungo hadn’t raised his voice, he didn’t even sound cross. Bilbo still flushed with shame and looked down to the floor. “And our situation isn’t nearly as dire as you think. We will outlast this winter.”

“The food will end and we have no way of getting more.”

Going outside was unthinkable. The wolves and the other Fell beast stalked the Shire and attacked any Hobbit brave (or stupid) enough to venture outside. Going to their neighbors for help was nearly impossible and even if they did there was no guarantee that they’d receive help. 

On the days when the storms died down and the sun appeared on the sky they got news. Little tidbits here and there from a desperate Hobbit armed with kitchen knives or pitchfork looking for food. Several smilas had collapsed from the snows; entire families were found dead from buildup gasses from clogged chimneys; others were at death’s door; no help was coming.

“We will be fine,” Bungo said squeezed Bilbo’s shoulder before leaving. The younger Hobbit knew that his father was lying.

***

_The sea is beautiful. She, even more so._

_***_

The Rangers came by Rethe. There was little for them to do. By then it was not the beasts or even the hunger that the Hobbits feared. It was the sickness that had managed to invade almost every home. Many died that spring, weaken by the hunger and the cold.

The youngest girl, little Hilda, caught it first from one of the messengers. Soon everyone in Bag End did as well. When Bilbo woke up, the fever broken and his mind clearer, Hilda, Hamfast and Meliot were dead.

.

.

.

So was Bungo.

***

The dreams never stopped. As time went on, they became more and more detailed and he remembered more and more of them. He remembered being tall and being small; living in forests and castles and mountains; he remembered songs and stories and games and one day, like a band that has been stretched and released, he Remembered everything.

On that day, a couple of years before his majority and for the first time in this life, Bilbo Baggins feigned feeling sick and stayed in his room. Belladonna, by then a shadow of her former self, merely brought him food and left him alone.

***

_“Don’t die,” he (she) was crying. “I just found you, you don’t get to die.”_

_“My starlight, how glad I am to see you.”_

_“You cannot leave, Friner, I forbid it.”_

_“I will just rest my eyes, Adamanta, I am so tired.”_

_“No! Frinar! Please don’t leave, please, Friner!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galad-nin – my sunlight (galad - sunlight, light (bright), brilliance, radiance, glittering reflection, nin – my)  
> Lereredth – ler (summer) + eredth (seed)
> 
> Winterflith – 22nd of September to 21st of October  
> Blotmath – 22nd of October to the 20th of November  
> Foreyule – 21st of November to the 20th of December  
> Yule – 21st and 22nd of December  
> Afteryule – 23rd of December to the 21st of January  
> Solmath – 22nd of January to the 20th of February  
> Rethe - 21st of February to the 22nd of March
> 
> The dreams (flashbacks) are from different lives. Keep in mind that those are very short memories and Bilbo isn’t quite capable of differentiating between his current reality and the one of the dreams, so don't asume he is male in each one. I have tried to hint in the conversations who says what.


	3. To Lose Your Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it truly began. On the second day after what would become known as the Battle of Azanulbir, Thorin was crowned.

On the other side of the world, east of the great mountain range known as the Misty Mountains lies the Lonely Mountain – home to Erebor, the greatest Dwarven kingdom in the Third Age. The great stronghold is separated and protected from the beasts of Forodwaith, the Northern Waste, by Ered Mithrim – the Grey Mountains.

Twice settled by the Durin’s Folk and once abandoned, under the rain of Thror I, Erebor flourished. The Dwarrow fleeing the clod drakes of the North, the Scourges of Nain II, had followed their young and untested king and returned to the Lonely Mountain. There they had dug deep, deeper than before and found rich thick vines of gold and silver, and many precious gems. They dug and they mined and Erebor grew richer. People flocked to the Lonely Mountain and with them trade flourished and artists from all over Arda came to perform in the Great Halls. There was plenty.

It was in this world filled with golden harps and balls that Thorin son of Thrain son of Thror first cried out. For the second time in ten lifetimes he was to be of royal blood and not some minor off-shoot to the clan but a High Prince – second in-line to the Ereborian throne. Thorin was raised in opulence and plenty with the heavy duty of the Crown not too far off. He didn’t understand any of it.

For all that he was a cherished Prince, an Heir, Thorin was still a child and as one he grew up peacefully, playing at war with his cousins and begrudgingly studying with his tutors. And if the games got a little too real sometimes; if he could almost taste the metallic tinge on his tongue; if he could hit and parry just a little too well for a Dwarfling his age, well he was a Prince of Durin, it was only expected that he is better. 

_The young Prince is so quick,_ many would comment inside the mountain. _A little too quick, if you ask me,_ others would disagree, _not natural that is, there is something else going on._

_Could it be?_ Whispers would follow the young Dwarfling when he visited the market.

_Could he really be?_ Dwarrows would wonder at the fighting range.

_It **is** said that Durin will return seven times. _Most would conclude and nod to themselves. There was something special about the Prince.

When Thorin was very young, not even ten full summers of age, the Great kingdom of Erebor had a seven-day feast in honor of the birth of the Princess Dis. Mahal had truly blessed the line of Durin – a second child and a Dwarrowdam at that.

And if any still had doubts, they were quickly relieved of them a mere three years later with the appearance of Prince Frerin. The line of Durin was strong and nothing would shake it.

_***_

_The North is bitter and cold. No matter how many furs he puts on, the cold would find its way to seep in. Wind and snow, and snow and wind. Everywhere he looks there is only snow, rocks covered in snow, leafless trees covered in snow, britches covered in snow._

_Aluë, but he hates the snow. He hates the cold. He hates the monotony of it all._

_But most of all, he hates the distance between them. The long silences, the glares during the day and the soft anguished sobs coming from her bedroll night after night._

_“She will forgive you, melon-nin,” his lover would murmur into his ear during the long stretches of silence at the campfire. “She loves you still.”_

_“My darling, it has been a long time since love was enough.”_

_***_

Nothing could shake the line of Durin, but perhaps someone could.

As Thorin grew older and the weird dreams grew more intense, his grandfather became stranger. It was little things at first, a word here and a phrase there. Thoughts voiced out loud about the splendor of Erebor, the greatness of the Treasury, the beauty of the golden walls.

He was right to be proud of what he had achieved after leading his people, many reasoned. Nearly two hundred years ago he had been but a newly-crowned king of a fleeing devastated people. A king in name but little else after so many had abandoned him to follow his brother Gror to the Iron Hills. And yet, he had persevered and led his people to glory and riches. _It is only right to be proud of his legacy_ , all agreed.

The pride grew, however, and morphed into something else, something less benign, something sinister.

The king would dress with more care and opulence than ever before – golden threads weaved into heavy velvet cloaks; diamonds and rubies, and sapphires encrusted into heavy crowns and rings; countless golden chains hung upon his neck, so many that Thror had started to hunch. His beard had grown longer and if not for the many ornaments on it would appear ill kept. Elaborate braids that none could see from the clasps and beads made of precious metals and jewels adorned his head.

In those days, Thorin would venture to the market and return to the palace with an uneasy feeling of dread.

“There are less and less stalls these days,” he said to his mother one night after dinner. Frerin and Dis had long been sent to bed and Thrain had not even attended. In truth, Thorin should have been asleep as well, but he had ignored the not so subtle hints aimed at him and waited until they were alone. “And less product as well. Have you seen the lower levels, Amad? The stone is cracked.”

“And what of it, my son?” Ris asked in calm measured words. She was an imposing figure in the Ereborian Court. She was taller than most, with long grey hair and dark eyes. Preferring more subdued colors, she was the one most often found wearing the deep Durin blue and silver ornaments. When she spoke, for she did so rarely, most tended to listen.

“It wasn’t like that last year!” Thorin exclaimed.

“And it worries you,” a loud bang echoed in the room. The prince found himself standing with both palms resting heavily on the stone table.

“How can it not, Amad? Does it not worry you? Our people are suffering!”

The Dwarrowdam calmly sipped her tea as her son fumed and paced around the room like an overly agitated dog.

“What do you succeed with this unseemly display then?” she asked as she poured herself another cup. “Except at failing to control your temper,” Ris didn’t need to look up from where she was adding honey to the herbal blend to know that her eldest was standing still with clenched fists and fuming.

“To get you to see that there is a problem,” Thorin answered finally after a few deep breaths.

“Do you think me blind?” She raised her eyebrow, he paled.

“No, Amad.”

“And yet you presume to be the only one to see that there is a problem,” her voice was deceptively calm. “I wonder however, if you see the cause?”

“The cause?” Thorin was confused and relieved. Perhaps the problem wasn’t so dire. His mother knew all about it and she would fix it.

“What you listed were symptoms of a disease, but not the disease itself,” she said and added nothing else. Rather, the princess looked pointedly at the turned over chair.

“I am not certain I understand your meaning, Amad,” Thorin said as lifted the chair and put it back at the table. With some reluctance he sat down.

“If you do not, then perhaps now is not the time for this conversation.”

In and out, in and out. He knew that if he were to lose his temper one more time, his mother would sent him to his room and the conversation would be over.

“We are the richest and greatest kingdom of the Third Age and yet our people live in near poverty,” it was possible that he did not succeed to keep the inflection from his tone, judging by her thinned lips.

“You know nothing of poverty and are too young to truly understand it.”

_But I do know it,_ he wanted to say. _I know what is like to eat an old moldy bread and be happy about it. I know what is like to wear rags and freeze in the winter. I know what is like to work until you collapse and still not have enough to eat and be warm at the same time. I know hunger and I know poverty, and I know our people should not know that!_

Thorin said none of that. How could he, when he didn’t know why he was so familiar with the gnawing pangs of hunger and the constant fear and defeat.

“They are not living as they did less than a year ago,” he settled for instead. The answer seemed to appease his mother at least.

“That is true, but can you think of the cause?” she poured a cup and offered it to him. Thorin took it and busied himself adding milk and sugar thinking.

“It is not the mines, otherwise Sigin’adad would have said something,” he mused out loud. “Trade with Dale is still good, I think, so it shouldn’t be that,” looking down at the swirling soft fumes, Thorin did not see his mother’s tiny smile. “We would have heard if there was a sickness. Can’t you tell me what you clearly know?”

“How will you learn if I give you all the answers? You will rule one day and I won’t be here forever,” the cup his hand nearly shattered.

“Don’t say that!” hopefully she would forgive him this loss of temper; hopefully he would silence the voice in his head he knew wasn’t his saying that _everybody dies and kingdoms fall, that is the one constant._ “A hint at least?” he asked in a plaintive voice.

“Perhaps. What would you give me in return?” there was a hint of a smile in her inflection. Another lesson then.

“A better ruler, hopefully many years later,” courageously he added a grin. Ris’ booming laughter, so at odds with the rest of her demeanor, helped him breathe easier.

“Cheeky brat. Tell me then, what happens with all the profits from the sales? That concerns us, I mean.”

“They are taxed?” he almost missed the tiny nod. “And the taxes go to the Treasury.”

“And?”

“And… the taxes are set by the High Treasurer during the Summit. With Sigin’adad’s approval that is. After the taxes are collected, they are send to the Treasury and used for… something,” he trailed off unable to remember what happens with all the gold in the Treasury. Certainly a part of the profit had to be used for something other than collecting dust.

“What is our duty?”

“To help and protect the people of Erebor,” Thorin answered without thinking. _Oh._ “But the treasury isn’t empty. We should have enough to help them.”

“We do have enough, more then,” and for the first time since he could remember, his mother appeared old and tired. “But it has been a while since we gave money to the people.”

“But things were fine last year,” they were, but perhaps, “they weren’t ideal,” the foreign traders had been as richly dressed as ever, but the Ereborian standing next to their richer counterparts had indeed looked a little shabby. “It’s been going on for years, hasn’t it? Whatever it is.”

“If trade remains more or less constant,” Ris said instead of answering. “What changes to make the people poorer?”

“That is what I want to know,” Thorin grumbled under his breath. “They spend more gold,” he hastened to add. “Because things cost more.”

“And if people can’t afford new clothes and trinkets, why would the vendors raise the prices?”

“Because they need the money as well. But if the situation is so dire, how can we still collect the taxes for the Treasury…” a horrible realization was creeping in. “Sigin’adad said that we have never had more gold. Amad, how high are those taxes?”

“Too high,” she said. “I am proud of you.”

“What are we going to do?” He asked as he preened under the rare compliment. “Why hasn’t Sigin’adad

Lowered the taxes?”

“Because, my son, he is the one who raised them. The position of High Treasurer has been occupied by many people in the last few years.”

“But Sigin’adad wouldn’t!” would he? “We must tell him that he is hurting people!”

“Sit down, Thorin!” he hadn’t realized he had stood up. “We must do nothing. We cannot do anything. You must understand this. Thror is king and we are his loyal subjects. Do you understand?”

There was little he could do but nod.

***

_“Another tiara, Brarar?” she laughs. For some reason he thinks of small copper bells. “Haven’t you tired yet?”_

_“Does it not please you, mithrim?” he isn’t worried._

_Soft lips meet his. There are delicate hands tangled in his hair and tongue in his mouth. Mahal, but he has loved her for so long!_

_***_

The day Thorin was to present his First Proof of Mastery to the Jewelers Guild was the day everything changed. Years later, on a warm summer night, Balin would ask him how he knew that it was a dragon. The Dwarf would receive no answer.

Because on that faithful day on the battlements, like the dry hot wind, so strong that the pines creaked and bend, all his memories came rushing in and then he **knew**. He knew every detail form every life, all swirling inside his mind until he didn’t know who and when he was.

_Who am I?_

_Who am I?_

_WhoamI?!_

He remembered battles long since over, feeling them as if they were happening today. He remembered the sound the giant claws make on the stone, the way the air dried from the heat, feeling each flap of the wings even when the beast is too far to be seen.

_Focus!_

_FOCUS!_

“Call out the guards!” he ordered, knowing that it would be futile. These weren’t his brethren from Khazad-dûm, these Dwarrow were not trained to fight the great beasts.

“Dragon!” he bellowed over the sound of the Bell and watched as the warriors gathered. “Hold the gates!” he yelled while running toward the throne room. “Hold the gates, until we evacuate everyone!” grim faces flashed past him. They knew what he was ordering.

“Hold the line!”

“We must hold the line!”

“Baruk Khazad! Khazad ai-menu!”

The closer he got to the palace, the more chaotic everything was. The children were crying, refusing to let go of their parents or to move from whatever spot they were in. The attack on the mountain were so fierce that the walls and ground shook.

“Run toward the side exits!” he said to a young Dwarf, whilst he helped him stand. Were the situation not so dire, he would be stricken by the beauty of the other. “Get as many to follow you and run towards the side exits!”

“Sire, I-”

“Run! The gates won’t hold much longer!” the Dwarf left, reddish-brown hair trailing behind him like a halo.

And he ran towards the throne room. He reached it just as the ceiling was starting to collapse. The old king stood beneath the throne, reaching for the jewel mounted above it. A flash of something, a memory of a similar light, only much stronger, crossed his mind. He didn’t have time to dwell on it.

The king held the Arkenstone to his breast as he ran. At that moment the mountain shook and he knew, the Dragon had breached the Gates. Soon, he even saw it. Part of the ceiling caved in, the farthest wall fell and piles of golden coins started filling the throne room. And underneath the treasure, he saw the reddish end of a tale.

The king ( _Thror, Sigin’adad!_ ) lost his footing over the ruble and the stone ( _the beautiful, glittering, and precious jewel_ ) slipped through his fingers and was lost in the sea of gold. Thror tried to dive after it, but he was faster and managed to pull him back. As soon as he dragged the old Dwarf away from the riches, he felt the fight and energy leave him. The old Dwarf sagged in his arms.

Getting to the gates, with the pillars crumbling around him and the other Dwarf slowing him down was a nearly insurmountable task.

“Thorin!” someone was shouting a name. “Thorin!” a hand grabbed him and he swirled around to face a familiar Dwarf.

“We must leave before the mountain falls on our heads!” he said and tried to keep walking. Another Dwarf ( _Dwalin, his cousin Dwalin, his closest friend_ ) helped him hoist the king up and together they managed to cross the High Bridge before it collapsed.

“Are you alright?” the other ( _Balin, his tutor, friend, advisor_ ) asked once they stopped some distance away from the lost mountain. “Thorin!”

There were people gathered around them. Dwarrow and Dwarrowdams, covered in sooth and dirt, some with packs, other without, with torn clothes and tired eyes.

“The rest?” he asked. “Where are the rest?”

“We were among the last to leave the mountain,” Balin explained. “They must be ahead.”

“Good.”

“Thorin,” that name again, _is it his?_ “Your mother, the Princess Ris, she was inspecting the mines today and…” a tense silence fell over their small group.

“May she rest in His Halls in peace,” there was a sharp inhale behind him. “The rest of the Royal family?” he knew it was important, he knew he should care, but why. People die and when a fire drake attacks, they die even easier.

“I saw Prince Frerin with the archers,” another voice spoke up. A Dwarrowdam sitting on the ground, holding her right hand in an awkward anger. “They left after it broke the gates down and tried to hit the… the Dr- Dragon from outside. Nothing pierced its hide.”

“What else do we know?” he tried to sound calm and authoritative. If the leader is calm, he knew, the others would be incline to trust him and follows his orders.

“I saw a group ahead of us. They must be on the other side of the-“

“Elves!” someone interrupted and pointed West. Indeed, an elven host on horses had appeared above the crest of the slopes of Withered Head. Perhaps with their help they could defeat the Dragon. Perhaps those who were probably trapped in the shafts would not starve to death. Perhaps…

But that small hope was cut short, because as suddenly as the host had appeared, they turned around and rode away. Shouted curses filled the small camp.

“We shall find no help there,” he said and turned East, the awful betrayal had struck deep. “The others would have gone to the Iron Hills. And even if they have not, we are going there.”

“No!” Thror said unexpectedly, awoken from his stupor. “We will not go to Gror, crawling like beggars. My son would not have lead anyone there.”

“And where should we go then, Sire?” he asked a little cross. “Shall we bargain with the Elves for passage through the Woods?”

“We will go north,” declared the king, “and go around Mirkwood until we reach the Misty Mountains.”

_Thror is king and we are his loyal subjects. Do you understand?_

“Yes Sire,” he bowed and held his tongue. His head was pounding too much to argue anyway.

“Thorin-!” he heard as the world went black and he felt his knees hitting the ground.

***

_He remembers a time without sun and moon, a time when the light came from the stars. But the stars were so bright and the light was enough. He misses those stars sometime, when he works in his forge. They were so beautiful._

_…_

_He remembers years spent wandering through the Continent trying to fulfil impossible tasks. He remembers harnessing the power of the stars and it still not being enough. He is so tired then, so sure the last task will never be finished that he starts crafting trinkets and mementoes of her – bells to hear a hint of her laugh, copper leaves for the color of her hair and the forest they met. And then he is dead=_

_…_

_He remembers sailing the sea with Finwe, terrified of what is to come, but comforted in the small delicate hand in his._

_He remembers seeing the light for the first time._

_…_

_He remembers the slaughter._

_…_

_He remembers the Wars and the pain and the guilt._

_…_

_Yet more war, more death. But the woods are his, will always be his, even though his is a child of Mahal. He is at peace here, even after the death of his beloved. The Prince (king now) is kind and so gentle._

_…_

_He remembers dying and saying goodbye._

_…_

He remembered.

It was difficult, the first few weeks after Thorin woke up from what he was informed by Dwalin a _three-day-beauty-nap that did absolutely nothing for his looks._ Thorin had smiled and laughed at the joke, and everyone had been relieved that their prince was fine.

That very night, looking at his people he had vowed that Erebor would be reclaimed. He had kneeled down and cut off his beard and most of his braids and burned them in the small campfire. Thror had looked on horrified.

“No other braid shall adorn my hair until we are home,” ha had said in the heavy silence. “I shall suffer no beard until we are home. And as others’ burn, so shall mine.”

And that was that.

The Children of Durin traveled for many months. Thror had been correct and Thrain indeed had not lead their people to the Iron Hills. Their groups had reunited a few days later among joyous cries.

He had a father, a sister and a brother. In those early days Thorin had to remind himself of that. He had to remind himself of many things, small details and larger events. The confusion and disarray in his mind was gradually getting better and he stopped slipping up.

For many summers they traveled, slowly going from mountain to mountain, looking for a new home. The once proud people from the richest kingdom I Arda had been reduced to a nomadic tribe, sleeping beneath the stars on the open air.

“I did it once, I can do it again!” Thror would proclaim often and the people listened and followed him. Away from gold and silver, he was almost his old self.

The winters were hardest. They couldn’t camp outside and the food they could find was rare. Then they were forced to seek shelter in the towns of Men and work the most demeaning jobs for mere pittance.

Slowly, many began to lose hope and to turn to other Dwarf settlements. They did not wish to be a wandering nation, starving and working for less. But as some left, others were born even in the harsh conditions of the road. Each child was met with celebrations and hope for a better future.

That way, eleven summers latter, the Children of Durin reached Ered Luin – the Blue Mountains, the western most mountain range and finally settled there. The first winter was hard, the second even more so, but by the third it got better.

Ered Luin was no Erebor, however. No matter how deep they mined, few valuable metals could be found. Many chose to seek work outside the settlement, spending seasons away and returning only for the winter moths with gold in their pockets.

Slowly, Thror’s thoughts were turning to the East, to another abandoned kingdom renowned for its riches and strength. So, twenty summers after that devastating attack, all able-bodied Dwarrow were preparing for a War.

***

_The first time she saw Khazad-dûm as Aslog much had changed and yet much remained the same. For all that she loved her birthplace in this life, Oracarni was not Khazad-dum. The eastern mountain was unlike any other. She had never traveled so far east before, since her first life, and to have the chance to live there had been a welcome respite following the mess that was her previous life. The red stone, the warm earth and the Rhun sea – her childhood had been spent in peace, enjoying the nature and finishing her Mastery._

_The Gunne came and she left with him._

_“What has changed, lukhdel, you must tell me.”_

_“Not much, marlel, you know us Dwarrow, we change very little,” Gunne didn’t smile much, Aslog had noticed. He was also much older than herself, by nearly a hundred years and adorned with many scars. He was a warrior, not a healer and that worried her sometimes._

_“That is a vile lie and you know it. Tell me!” even when he laughed it sounded forced. There were no more bells._

_“It is larger, I suppose. We are digging much deeper than ever before, but it’s still the same.”_

***

Thorin often wondered how his old home would look now, centuries after the great calamity. _Durin’s Bane,_ he heard it called. An unknown beast that had managed to drive away the Dwarrow from their ancestral home. _A child’s tale,_ others said, _nothing more and nothing less. It’s the orcs we need to worry about, not a ghost story._

He wanted to scream. He wanted to yell at everyone and make them understand. Even if the orcs were defeated, even if Moria was theirs once more, the Balrog was still there. To step into the mountain was death. To fight for it was death. Why didn’t anyone see that?

“What’s making you look so constipated, Thorin?” Dwalin’s gruff voice said from behind him, as they were entering the Dog’s Bone. That was an unfortunately named establishment on the lower levels of Ered Luin that bousted two things – strong dubiously legal spirits and a drunken crowd prone to tallking.

“A more respectful person would say worried,” a heavy hand slapped him on the shoulder, the one that still hurt from the morning sparing, the bastard. “Or nothing at all.”

“Yea, but that ain’t me. So what’s got yer princely knickers in a twist?” Thorin snorted despite himself and shrugged.

“The Campaign,” he sat down at the first empty table in the tavern. A young boy quickly appeared with two large glasses filled to the brim with some alcohol, used to the sporadic visits from the prince. For a gold piece he would keep their cups filled and bring the day’s special. 

“What ‘bout it?” Dwalin continued after the server boy had left.

“I don’t think,” Thorin trailed off. _Thror is king and we are his loyal subjects. Do you understand?_ Ris’ words echoed in his mind and stalled his tongue.

“I already know that, laddie,” Dwalin guffawed after it became clear Thorin wouldn’t say more. “That ain’t the problem, though, init?”

“Sigin’adad is the King,” he settled for after taking a large gulp. “And I am loyal to the Crown.”

_Even when the Crown is wrong_ , he didn’t say. _Even when I know that we are making a mistake and I don’t know how to fix it._

“He is the king,” he repeated, “and his mind is unchanged.”

“Thorin, you cannot mean that you don’t-“even Dwalin, a warrior through and through, unused to and unsuited to court life knew there were thigs that had to remain unsaid.

“How can I when I know what awaits us there!” none of the patrons turned, so his outburst must not have been noticed. “How can I, when we are ordering them to their deaths?” he muttered from behind his hands. “And no one realizes this. Everyone is exited, apprehensive but exited, and all I feel is dread.”

The army that was being amassed would rival that of the Last Alliance. Even without the Arkenstone, Thror had managed to call for help from every Dwarven kingdom, now that they had a mountain and would not be a burden or a threat to the other lords, his treacherous mind would add. The glory of taking back Khazad-dûm would be unrivaled.

“Afternoon, m’lords,” a youthful voice said. Thorin looked up from his bread to see a Dwarfling, not much older than forty summers, with long braided red hair and a large smirk.

“What’d ye want?” the guard asked menacingly, looking the newcomer all over.

“Dwalin meet Nori,” Thorin said with a sigh, disliking the grin on Nori’s face. “He is working for me.”

“And what can he be doin’ for ye?” the warning in Dwalin’s voice was clear.

“Don’t be disgusting,” he scolded, the same time as Nori’s _be as filthy as you like_ , which would have sounded more seductive had he been a little older. “He is merely apprising me of the situation in the city.”

“Seein’ as most are not as honest with his lordship, as he seems to want. Why would he worry ‘bout simple folk as ourselves, I’d never know,” the redhead wasn’t taking his eyes off Dwalin, looking him over with a grin. Thorin felt a headache coming. It was in times like this he wished for Adamanta. Hopefully they’d meet soon and she wouldn’t- No! Now was not the time.

“Nori, what is new?” he tried to redirect the conversation. “We don’t have all day.”

“Nothin’ much, m’lord. The sickness in the Coal district was contained, no other casualties. The mines yield as little as ever. The food is a little less, what with the preparations for the Campaign. People are excited to march as soon as the snow thaws.”

_People are excited to march,_ oh Mahal but he wanted to scream.

***

_The ground shook._

_The walls shook._

_The strange sound from the deep was getting louder. Even after all the mines were closed, the echoes continued._

_A loud crash._

_Immense weight crushing her._

_She reaches for his hand._

_***_

At the end of a seven-year-long campaign Thorin was crowned king at the age of fifty one.

Not yet of age, it had taken the rumors and songs of his battle against the Pale orc to make the other lords even consider it. By all rights, he should have a regent now, to help him prepare to lead, but Thorin, still covered in dirt and blood from the battle and reeling from the loss of his kin had called for a Council.

“He led the charge against Smaug,” lord Hain said. The old Dwarf was one of the few true allies he had in his hearing. It was known that Hain had never agreed with Thror’s views and to have him on his side had been a welcome surprise. “The prince was but a child, but it was due to his quick thinking and on his orders that so many of us escaped that day.”

“And the vow was truly humbling,” lady Dura added. The rest shifted uncomfortably in their seats, unwilling to reproach her for bringing up such a taboo subject. Thorin’s hair hung loose over his shoulders, matted with grime and Mahal knows what else, his beard was shorn short. In this tent filled with Generals and high ranking members he looked less a Prince and more a common foot soldier in disgrace.

“Didn’t he spend three days unconscious, though?” Lord Taavi was had been Thror’s Minister of Finance before the Fall. He had seen his king slipping and stood by, lining his pockets with gold. Ris had called him a cockroach once, because he never dies and Thorin was beginning to see why. “And no can say he made that vow in his right mind,” the rules of the hearing stated that he must remain quiet and standing still until a verdict has been reached. A king ought to be patient and above petty squabbles.

“He was acting odd for a few weeks,” lord Femir mused. _You try sorting through several lifetimes of memories before you’ve had time to grow up,_ Mahal but it felt that for the past few years all he had wanted to do was scream.

“There was a dragon attack, Femir,” the lady said mildly. It amused Thorin to no end how she could make grown Dwarrow tremble in their seats with nothing but a simple look. An old friend of his mother, he had often wondered who had influenced whom. “Regardless, we are not here to discuss the Prince’s abilities to lead twenty years ago.”

“I agree,” Dawud was the last member of the Council and the one whose word carried the most weight. As the highest ranking military commander left after the battle, until the line of succession was established, he commanded the army and with that was even above Thorin himself. “Price Thorin, what do you plan on doing?” Taavi couldn’t stifle the grimace in time.

“Collect the bodies of our kin and put them to rest,” Thorin didn’t allow himself to smile at Femir’s surprised gasp. “We may have won the battle my lords, my lady, but we have suffered great losses. Our people deserve to be laid in the stone with respect, their families need to be informed and those who lived deserve to return home.”

“And is home Khazad-dûm?” Dawud gave away nothing but a mild interest. Thorin, had he truly been as young as they thought him, might not have noticed the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way lord Taavi leaned a little forward, lady Dura’s thinned lips.

“Home is where our loved ones are,” he answered truthfully. As much as it pained him to admit it, “Khazad-dûm is not home, nor has it ever been. What lies beneath that mountain is death and nothing more. Khazad-dûm has not been Khazad-dûm in a long time. No, we will return to Ered Luin and Mahal willing, one day we may retake Erebor.”

“Retake Erebor,” the glee in lord Taavi’s voice was almost palpable. “You would have your people fight a dragon.”

“Dragons don’t live forever, my lord,” _and I know how to kill them_. “Regardless, I believe we can prosper in Ered Luin, if we only had the time.”

“And what would you do about the food shortage we are sure to have this winter?” lady Dura asked.

And so it truly began. On the second day after what would become known as the Battle of Azanulbir, Thorin was crowned.

***

_“Will you ever forgive me, my light?”_

_“We are bound in this life and the next, and the one after. You’ve made sure of that.”_

_“You didn’t answer my question.”_

_“You promised we’d never lie to each other.”_

_“My light-“_

_“You promised! They are dead!”_

_“It’s been years-“_

_“Leave!”  
“Berthril, I apoligise, please-“_

_“Leave Aphedir, run to your lover and leave me be!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adad – father  
> Amad – mother  
> Sigin’adad – grandfather   
> Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu - “Axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you!”  
> Lukhdel – light of all lights  
> Marlel – love of all loves
> 
> In the original books, the Arkenstone was found during the first time Erebor was settled and not during Thror’s time, so unlike in the movie, it isn't the reason for Thror's madness.


End file.
